Pride, Prejudice, and Little Black Dresses
by DamselInDeduction
Summary: Mary Watson learns a bit more about Molly Hooper as they become better friends. When Mary stumbles upon an particular little black dress in Molly's closet, she decides its time their favorite brooding detective took a cue from Jane Austen. Otherwise, Molly might end up with some version of the awful llins, and where would that leave the Darcy-like Sherlock?
1. Chapter 1

Two empty bottles of wine were sitting on Molly's coffee table by the time the movie credits rolled. They were flanked by empty Chinese food containers and a large half-finished bag of popcorn. Mary was sprawled out on the floral print couch while Molly lay sideways along her beat-up yellow armchair. Neither looked like they had plans to move anytime soon.

"Molly dear, how many times have you watched this movie?"

"Lost count," she replied, "but it's my favorite."

"I'm sure it is, you have it practically memorized." Mary couldn't help but smile at the brunette. "I watched you mouth along to more than a few scenes."

Molly shrugged lazily.

"Does Mister Darcy remind you of anyone we know?"

Molly just glared at her. Mary noticed, but was not swayed from her train of thought.

"Hmmm, it is a truth universally acknowledged that a consulting detective in possession of a mind palace must be in want of a pathologist."

Molly couldn't help but laugh.

"If you know that line off the top of your head, I'm not the only one here obsessed with Pride and Prejudice."

Mary just gave a mysterious smile and a wink before sitting up.

Molly mused for a while. "Well, if we decide Sherlock is Darcy, that means John is Bingley. And you get to be Jane Bennett." Molly beamed at her friend.

"And you are Lizzie."

Molly's bright smile dropped a bit before she pasted on a less enthusiastic smile.

"No, Mary. I'm just Charlotte. Waiting for a very practical romance, and hoping for a slightly less dopey Mr. Collins than we just watched." Molly attempted a light smile, but the blonde's raised eyebrow was not encouraging.

"How about some ice cream?" the pathologist said flatly before throwing back the last of the wine in her glass, almost running into her kitchen.

 _Sherlock Holmes is a bloody idiot_ , thought Mary as she watched her friend rummage around her freezer.

How could Molly Hooper think herself a Charlotte, some supporting character in their lives?

Here stood a beautiful woman who had put her heart and career on the line time and time again for the consulting git. She has stitched his wounds, snuck him body parts from the morgue- hell, the man even commandeers her bed whenever he likes!

And in return?

Cold politeness. Sherlock was protective of her, chasing away her dates and making sure no one bothered his pathologist- excepting himself of course. But it was obvious that his treatment of Molly hurt her deeply.

Mary's reverie was broken when Molly returned with two bowls of ice cream, her genuine smile back in place.

"I never had sleepovers growing up, but I'm certain they're supposed to involve ice cream sundaes," she said, proudly handing one to Mary as she joined her on the sofa.

"All good things in life do, Dr. Hooper. I'll be taking Ella out for ice cream tomorrow too, after I pick her up from Mrs. Hudson. She's a saint to take her for the night."

"So when do your boys get back from Scotland?" asked Molly.

"Hah, my boys. Have I adopted Sherlock, then? Or did I accidentally marry them both?"

"Pretty sure they're a package deal, Mary. You should know that by now," giggled Molly.

"I'm willing to share the consulting headache with you."

Molly became visibly uncomfortable.

"Mary, I know you mean well, but..." she refused to look up from her tight grip on the ice cream bowl. "It hurts to think about it. I know Sherlock doesn't feel the same way, and- I'm really, really trying to get over him."

She finally met Mary's eyes. "I have to. I will always love Sherlock Holmes, but I can't make him love me."

How many jumpers could one person need? Mary knew a little something about jumper collections- she was married to John Watson, for God's sake- but this... this was crazy. Where did she find all of these monstrosities?

Molly had offered up her closet in case Mary got chilly, before the brunette slipped into the bathroom to get ready for bed. So it was the perfect opportunity for Mrs. Watson to nose about her friend's wardrobe.

"Oh, what do we have here...?" murmured Mary, as she pulled a little black dress from the closet. Rhinestones lined the straps and bust. It was easily the sexiest item in this wardrobe.

"Hooper, what have you been hiding here?" teased Mary, as Molly returned to the room.

But all jokes were pushed aside when she saw all the color drain from Molly's face.

"I-oh-I... I haven't looked at that dress in a long time." She took the dress from her friend and looked at it very carefully. Running her hand over the fabric and sighing, she hung it on wall hook and stepped back from it, still assessing.

"Do you think it's a pretty dress, Mary?" asked Molly, sadly.

"It's gorgeous. That's why I pulled it out of the closet. I didn't mean to upset you, sweetie, I really didn't."

"I know, it's alright."

Mary took her friend by the hand, and they both sat on the end of Molly's bed. Both of them stared at the dress in silence for a while, before Mary wrapped her arm around her friend.

"Tell me the story of your dress, Molly Hooper," she whispered.


	2. Chapter 2

Mary was waiting in 221B when Sherlock returned home from his case in Edinburgh. She was sitting in John's chair, staring at the door, and playing with a small bouncy ball. In fact, the only movement Mary was making was the slight shift of her hand at each catch and re-bounce of the pink toy. Her face was set in an expressionless mask.

It didn't take Sherlock Holmes to see that the former assassin was furious.

"Mary."

"Sherlock."

Bounce. Catch. She stared unblinkingly at him.

There was a moment of tense silence.

Bounce. Catch.

"What can I do for you, Mrs. Watson?"

Bounce. Catch.

"Sit down, Mr. Holmes. I want to hear a story."

As soon as Sherlock was seated, Mary stopped the bouncing but held onto the ball. Relaxing into her chair, she shot a sly smile at the detective. He looked quite apprehensive; it was exactly what Mary wanted to see.

"The story I want to hear begins, _Once upon a time there was a Christmas Party at Baker Street_."

The tension that had been so apparent in Sherlock just a moment before was gone, as he slouched back in his leather chair and rolled his eyes like a petulant teen.

Immediately, something struck him painfully in the center of his chest, causing his breath to catch. Mary had thrown that damned rubber ball at him so hard he was certain to bruise.

"Damn it, woman, what the _hell_ was that for?!"

During all of it, Mary never lost her enigmatic smile. It looked more dangerous just before she spoke.

"You see, Mr. Holmes, my best friend's heart was broken the night of that party. I'd never heard this story until Molly shared a bit of it with me the other night." Mary's smile dropped. "You and I both know that Molly Hooper doesn't have a mean word to say about anyone, so I know I heard a very filtered version of the- well, let's call them festivities- of that evening."

The smile returned, as she tossed the bouncy ball in the air.

"So now I want to hear you tell me the story."

Sherlock had been rubbing at the injury on his chest, but stopped as he met Mary's eyes. All sarcasm was gone as his eyes went wide.

"Did she still seem upset? It was a long time ago."

"She sounded as sad as you do right now."

Sherlock took a deep breath and looked at the spot near the door, where Molly had stood that night. He'd been so cruel, taking out all his frustration on her. But she didn't cry, didn't run. She'd earned her apology that evening.

"Sherlock?"

"I was in the middle of a case. A very- difficult case in which someone was attempting to manipulate me emotionally. I didn't even want to have the damned party, but before I knew it, 221B was full of _people_."

Mary couldn't help her smirk at the way he spat the word.

Sherlock continued to recall the night, and seemed to get lost in his thoughts. "Molly Hooper came late; she was wrapped up in a huge coat and scarf. Cheerful, always so cheerful, but she was nervous, too. I didn't know why until she took off her coat."

"She was dressed to the nines, hair curled, sparkly accessories, and bright red lipstick and a bow in her hair. She didn't- didn't look like Molly. She was trying to be something else- trying to please someone else, and it made me so angry. Because Molly Hooper was trying to change for someone, and shouldn't have to change. Doesn't have to change."

Sherlock seemed to snap back in to reality, and seeing the soft look on Mary's face, he straightened into his well-practiced facade of indifference. But it was too late for that now- Mrs. Watson had seen how deeply the detective felt for her friend, and she would have the rest of the story.

"I believe there was the deduction of a particular gift, Sherlock. What happened?"

"Mary, I'm sure you've heard it from Molly, why are you asking me?" There was a hard edge to his tone, and Mary knew she'd have to tread lightly.

"Please tell me, Sherlock. And then I'll share with you the 'why.'"

That was all it took for Sherlock to unleash his anger. "It was a small rectangular box, perfectly wrapped in red, sitting at the top of her bag of gifts. And as soon as I saw it, I ripped into her. Because I knew that gift was for the bastard pushing Molly to change herself- making her feel as though she needed to change, that she wasn't enough. Some arrogant bastard made her feel that she had to compensate for the size of her mouth and breasts, and she _still_ bought him a gift, and took pains to wrap it for him!"

He jumped up from the chair, and stood at the window, fists clenched at his side. He spoke more softly now, the anger subsiding, changing to shame.

"When I realized the gift was for me- that I had made this woman feel insignificant... That I, indeed, said the most horrible things to her, _always_... I tried to apologize, I **did** apologize. But at that moment, the bloody case got in the way, and I ran."

"And, of course, no one was surprised. Because Sherlock Holmes is an absolute bastard to Molly Hooper. _Always_ ," he whispered.

He spun around to face Mary. "Well then, Mrs. Watson. Are you satisfied?" His face was dark, and his eyes narrowed.

Mary Watson knew the detective had some feelings for Molly, but she never could understand why he held himself so aloof around the pathologist. But now it was clear.

Sherlock Holmes felt he did not deserve the love of Molly Hooper.

Mary kept her poker face firmly in place as she mused aloud. "Well, your version of events does differ from Molly's. It's all very interesting." She awaited the detective's response; it would tell her quite a bit about how to proceed.

He wanted to ask. It was obvious. He was tense as he walked to his chair and sat down, knee bouncing. Mary couldn't be sure if he'd actually-

"Tell me. Does she still- Please." It was quiet, but there was something in his tone.

 _Oh, there was such hope in that word, 'please,'_ she thought.

"You love her." It was a statement, not a question, and Mary wasn't sure if he'd deny it or agree.

Sherlock didn't move, his gaze never wavering.

 _This was serious._ Mary smiled and handed over the rubber ball she'd assaulted him with earlier. A peace offering.

"I'll tell you everything I can, but first," she fished around in her oversized handbag, and pulled out a DVD.

"Are you up to speed on your Jane Austen?"


	3. Chapter 3

_If nothing else comes of this strange afternoon, at least Mrs. Hudson will be pleased that I've not shot up the wall,_ thought Sherlock.

He was still attacking the yellow smiley face on the wall, but this time with the little bouncy ball, courtesy of one Mrs. Mary Watson. She'd left him that and some very strange ideas about Molly Hooper.

Well, Molly Hooper and Jane Austen.

He'd been forced to watch the entire film, which was torture enough, but Mary made things worse. Because he knew she was watching him, and not the film, the entire time.

At times he'd swear she had the bloody thing memorized. And she had the gall to tell him she'd let him off easy-

There was apparently a six-episode miniseries she'd considered forcing upon him instead.

But if Sherlock were to be honest with himself, he could have walked away at any time. He didn't need Mary Watson to point out the significance of Pride and Prejudice.

It was Molly's favorite. He'd seen the well-worn paperback book on her nightstand time and time again over the years he'd known her. And it wasn't just gathering dust- he'd observed the bookmark move position every few days. Sherlock also knew this DVD was from Molly's collection; he recognized the worn corner of the beat-up case.

But his mind was churning over a piece of information that Mary Watson had shared with him. Information that wasn't making any sense.

 _Honestly, Charlotte Lucas?_

Pride and Prejudice was Molly's favorite story so at some point in her life, she had identified with Elizabeth Bennet. A character with a close bond to her doting father, often discussing books with him. A strong female, loyal to her family and friends, and unwilling to settle in love. Unafraid of defying society's expectations for women. These characteristics- he might as well have been describing Molly herself.

But Charlotte Lucas was described as plain, without prospects and getting old enough that she had to accept any offer presented. Someone who had given up on romance. It twisted Sherlock's gut to think that his hurtful actions had brought her to this way of thinking.

 _And if any man as loathsome as this Mr. Collins dared come near her, the weasel wouldn't be answering to some gentlemanly Darcy. He'd be dealing with a very dangerous Sherlock Holmes._

Sherlock jumped off of his chair, and headed into his bedroom. Although Mary had alluded to it, he couldn't be certain that Molly still cared for him. He had indeed been an unmitigated and comprehensive ass, as Bingley had stated, but perhaps it could be remedied.

He changed his clothes, choosing the dark purple shirt he knew Molly had liked. Eyeing himself in the mirror, he ruffled his dark curls, and with a quick nod to his reflection, he headed toward the coat rack and his Belstaff.

Molly Hooper hadn't realized it yet, but she was about to be courted.

Molly was used to Greg Lestrade stopping by the lab or the morgue- after all, she handled a good number of cases for Scotland Yard. And she genuinely liked Greg, but today, she just wished he'd leave her alone.

Because DI Lestrade was there to discuss the annual Scotland Yard ball.

Molly had originally planned on attending as she has most years. But for the past few days a black cloud of sorts had been hanging over her- well, not a cloud, really. More like a black dress.

Since the night Mary stayed over, Molly had not been able to put the dress back in the closet. It was still hanging there on her wall, and she knew she had to do something with it soon. It was almost taunting her with the memory of that awful Christmas party. She couldn't bear the thought of getting dressed up for anything right now- it made her a bit sick to her stomach.

"Sorry, Greg. I'm skipping the ball this year. I'm just- kinda busy lately."

"Come on, Molly. A night out and an open bar?! How can you say no?!"

A deep baritone interrupted the conversation. "Yes, Molly, why would you decline the invitation? I know you've enjoyed yourself at these events before."

She felt her stomach drop at the sound of his voice. She hadn't seen him in more than a week, and Molly had been so thankful for that. It was too much to see him again after telling Mary all about that horrible night.

"Sherlock, hello. What brings you to the lab?" Molly tried to sound cheerful, but it was forced, and she couldn't quite meet his eyes.

"I came to Bart's with the single object of seeing you... I had to see you," he stated. Molly's eyes widened in confusion. There was something familiar about that phrase...

"But you haven't answered my previous question, Molly. Why won't you be attending the Yarder's ball? I confess, I was looking forward to a dance."

 _No, no, no. This isn't happening, I can't handle this conversation right now. And the purple shirt, why was he wearing that damned shirt?! Did he just quote Pride & Prejudice?! Wait, a dance?!_

Both men were staring at her- Sherlock calmly expectant and Greg with sheer confusion on his face.

"I- uh, well. I have- I have to go!" Molly turned and walked out of the lab so quickly she was almost running. Leaving the two men with an awkward silence between them.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Gary, have the Watsons bought their tickets to the ball yet?"

Lestrade gritted his teeth but didn't correct the detective. "No, you git. Not yet."

"Excellent!" exclaimed Sherlock with a smile. "We will need a total of four tickets please, two for the Watsons, one for me, and one for Dr. Hooper." He was on his mobile texting before Greg could say a word. The DI's mouth hung open as he watched Sherlock leave the lab, the Belstaff blown behind him like a cape.

 **Mary, expect a call from Molly.**

 **I have a plan- need your assistance.**

 **-SH**


	4. Chapter 4

Molly had never been happier to get home to her flat. She sighed and leaned back against the front door, having dropped her striped bag to the carpet. It had been a long time since she'd come back from Barts this emotionally drained.

Sherlock had seemed so different today in the lab. He usually swept in asking about body parts and experiments, not asking about dances.

 _Oh, God. He came to see me- said that he_ _ **had**_ _to see me. Why is Sherlock Holmes so adamant about attending the Yarder's ball? He wants to dance- to dance with me, but why? There has to be a reason, something he needs from me-_

Molly was pulled from her jumbled thoughts by a plaintive mewl. Toby refused to be patient any longer. She took a deep breath and moved toward the kitchen.

"Yes, yes, Toby. Mummy's coming." The orange tabby was sitting on the counter and watching Molly as she opened a can of food and made up his dish. He only jumped down after she set his food on the floor.

Molly had no energy to cook a meal for herself, so she grabbed a couple of digestives and headed into her bedroom to undress. She was looking forward to a quick shower and the bliss of her soft, warm bed. But she was stopped by the object that seemed to haunt her all week.

That damned black dress.

She'd felt so good in that dress before the party. The mirror had shown a woman more likely to break hearts than have hers stomped upon. Her confidence had floated her all the way up to Baker Street- it was only at the door to 221 that Molly had felt a shiver of nerves. In the window above she'd caught sight of an arm holding a violin and reality had set in. Perhaps this impossible man would finally see her as more than just the girl in the morgue.

But she'd summoned up her courage and stood tall as she walked into the festivities. Yes, she'd been nervous but she was not going to waste this night. It was Christmas after all, even Sherlock Holmes must be a bit nicer at Christmas time!

Molly shook her head and exhaled a bitter laugh at the memory. How wrong she'd been. No matter the time of year, Sherlock would never be described as a nice man. Arrogant, proud, unpleasant... but a good man, too, in his own way. Righting wrongs, getting to the truth- even if it was often just to stave off boredom. And for all his talk about being heartless, he continued to be a true friend to John. And Mary as well.

Mary Watson. Molly had a feeling that Sherlock's strange behavior had something to do with her friend. It seemed a bit odd that only a few days had gone by since Mary's comment comparing Sherlock to Darcy, and today he strolls in asking about dances and quoting Mr. Darcy.

Molly dropped herself onto her unmade bed and closed her eyes.

Sherlock and Darcy. The two men that would, for Molly Hooper at least, always be the unattainable loves of her life. After reading Pride and Prejudice at the age of 13, Molly had lofty ideas about romance and the opposite sex- ideas that would be quickly crushed in secondary school. Boys who ignored her because of her plain looks and morbid interests quickly bruised Molly's hopeful heart, and after a while, she learned to hide her hopes for romance away. She dreamed that someday, when she was older, she'd meet her Darcy.

 _And Sherlock Holmes is probably as close to Fitzwilliam Darcy as I'm every going to find in real life. The problem is that I'm no heroine in a novel- just Molly Hooper._

 _And Sherlock has made it clear; I may count, but not quite enough._

A buzzing sound pulled Molly from her thoughts, and she opened her eyes. Chastising herself for such negative thoughts, she searched for her mobile which was hiding somewhere amid the bedsheets. She found the phone and hesitated in answering it, as she saw Mary Watson's face on the screen. After a deep breath, Molly hit the answer button.

"Hello, Mary." Molly's greeting was quiet and slow. Which did not seem to deter Mary at all.

"Hi, Molly! I'm in your neighborhood, thought I'd see if you were around! Fancy a drink with me?" she asked brightly.

"Actually, I'm a bit tired. I only got home a short while ago. But," Molly paused and gathered her thoughts, "I do think we should talk about whatever it is you said or did to Sherlock Holmes. He's not acting like himself, and I have a feeling you have something to do with that." Her voice wasn't accusatory, but Molly needed her friend to know she was upset.

Mary sighed, "You're right, Molly. We should talk. So- open your front door."

Molly hung up her phone and shook her head. She knew she wasn't in the best mood for this conversation, but at least she might figure out what Sherlock was up to. Mary was her best hope for answers.

She opened her front door and found Mary beaming with bags of Chinese takeaway in both hands.

"I knew you probably hadn't eaten a real meal today, so I thought I might bring an olive branch. In case you were angry with me." Mary was still smiling, but Molly could see she was a bit nervous under the bravado. Lucky for Mary, Molly Hooper had a tough time staying upset with her friends.

"Come on in," Molly said as she moved aside so the blonde could enter. "And I'm not angry with you. I'm just really confused."

"Dinner first, and then I'll come clean with you, Molls."

The two women sat next to each other on the couch, eating straight from the white paper cartons and discussing little Ella Watson's adventures of the week. But when they'd exhausted their pleasant and safe topics of discussion, Molly knew it was time to get her answers.

"Mary, Sherlock visited me at the morgue today. Which is a normal occurrence of course, except that he wasn't looking for eyes or fingers, he came asking questions about the Scotland Yard ball. He seems to want me to attend."

"He very much wants you to attend, Molly. That I know for a fact."

"I'm fairly certain he quoted Pride and Prejudice to me. Would you know anything about that?"

Mary couldn't quite hide the quirk at the corner of her lips.

"I didn't know that, but I'm not really surprised by it."

Molly was starting to get a bit annoyed with Mary's flippant answers, and she was too tired to filter herself anymore today.

"Mary, I'm starting to feel like I'm on the outside of some inside joke and I really don't care for it. So just tell me what it is that Sherlock wants so I can be done with the manipulation game. Is it body parts- does he want a whole body or something?! Does he need me to help him fake his death again, what?!"

Mary's face dropped at her friend's tirade. But Molly was far from finished, and the petite doctor leaped to her feet.

"I will do whatever he needs, I have **always** done whatever Sherlock **bloody** Holmes has asked of me! And I know he throws around the compliments when he thinks he needs to butter up mousey Molly Hooper, but you gave him even more ammunition to use on me."

Molly's voice was beginning to break. "I know it sounds stupid. I just wanted some small bit of romance in my life. And I'm learning to deal with the fact I will probably never find it, so I can't- I can't have Sherlock asking for dances and using Darcy's words to manipulate me." She was sobbing now.

"It hurts too much. So whatever he wants, I'll give him. I just need it to stop."

Mary Watson was stunned. She'd expected Molly to be a bit upset with her- Sherlock had prepared her for that. But Mary was sure her friend would be at least a little hopeful about her situation with Sherlock. Molly was so scared of letting Sherlock hurt her again, she couldn't see the sincerity in the detective's words.

Mary hugged her friend, and let Molly cry for a long while. When she began to calm, Mary sat the two of them back on the sofa. It was her turn to talk, and it was time Molly knew everything.

"Sherlock is being sincere, Molly. He cares a lot about you, and he's not trying to manipulate you. He's taking a chance with his heart. I know he is."

Molly shook her head. "You haven't known Sherlock as long as I have. I've been in his life for so many years now, and he's always known how I feel. Even if I hadn't been such an obvious fool, the man would have deduced it. If he felt the same, he'd have said or done something by now. Not all of us can afford to be romantic, Mary."

Mary's heart broke at the sadness in Molly's big brown eyes.

"What he knows is that he's hurt you so badly, that he doesn't deserve to be with you, Molly. Please give the man a chance. He's trusted you with the biggest secret of his life, and he told me it was because you could see him. "

Mary looked at her friend, hoping for any signs of hope in her eyes. But Molly's expression was guarded. There was no convincing her that Sherlock really did love her- at least, not tonight. So Mary hugged her friend one more time, and showed herself out.

 _I've done all I can do,_ thought Mary. _The rest is up to Sherlock now._


	5. Chapter 5

**How is she, Mary?**

 **-SH**

 **I don't know all of what you did to her in the past but I'm tempted to shoot you again, on Molly's behalf.**

 **-MW**

 **It's nothing I wouldn't deserve.**

 **-SH**

 **Fix this, Sherlock, or you will lose her.**

 **-MW**

Molly Hooper awoke with a splitting headache and a guilty conscience.

She'd been so overemotional the night before- too tired, and too confused about Sherlock- and she'd absolutely dumped all of that on Mary. In the light of the morning, it was all so much clearer.

She simply had to ask Sherlock was it was he needed from her, and once she'd provided it, they could go back to normal. And he'd forget about the Scotland Yard ball.

 _Much easier said than done._

Molly sighed and got herself out of bed. Wrapping her dressing gown around her faded pajamas, she shuffled into her kitchen for a glass of water and paracetamol. Toby jumped up on the counter, rubbing up against Molly's hand and purring loudly. Mornings were when her tabby was most affectionate, and in spite of her headache she couldn't help but smile. Molly cooed at him a bit before getting his breakfast ready and starting her tea.

First things first, Molly knew she had to apologize to Mary. It was a bit early, but Ella Watson kept an early schedule so her mother would have to be awake by now.

At least Molly hoped so as she listened to the line ring.

"Morning, Molls," answered Mary. Her voice was a little rough but Molly could here a smile in it.

"Oh, Mary, I'm so sorry for how I acted last night. I didn't set out to unload all of that on you, it just sort of- happened, I apologize."

"You have nothing to apologize for, Molly Hooper. It was hard to see you so upset, but you are entitled to your feelings and my job as your best and prettiest friend is to listen and love you through it. No worries at all. Now, a little bird told me you have today off from work. Do you have any plans?"

Relief washed over Molly; she hadn't realized how worried she'd been about her friend's reaction to her meltdown.

"No plans at all. I'd love to spend some time with you and Ella."

"And we'd love to spend some time with you. But first, Molly, I think you need to talk to Sherlock."

 _There goes that lovely feeling of relief._

"Whatever is going on between the two of you is troubling you to tears," continued Mary. "You deserve to find all your answers, but that can't happen until you are honest with Sherlock and he with you."

Molly chewed on her lower lip for a moment before sighing her response.

"You're right. I'll call him today."

"Good. And if you want to hash through anything later, give a call. The Watson girls are always here to help you. Ella's good for a cuddle and I'm always happy to pour some wine."

"Thank you, Mary. Keep the bottle at the ready for me," responded Molly with a small smirk.

"What kind of florist doesn't have _**satin-flowers**_?! This bouquet absolutely must have them, no substitute!"

"Apologies, sir. We don't deal in faux arrangements! _**That's**_ the kind of florist we are!" The man on the other line was losing his polite manner and getting snippy.

Sadly for him, no one was better at being snippy than Sherlock Holmes.

"Not faux flowers, you imbecile! _Sisyrinchium striatum_ , from the Iridacae family of plants. In the Victorian language of flowers it stands for sincerity, so I can't imagine you actually know anything about flowers if you are not carrying this _**very important flower**_!" Sherlock ended the call with the press of a button, but unsatisfied by the action, threw his mobile against the wall and watched it shatter into pieces.

"Brother mine, are you taking up flower arranging? A very relaxing hobby, I've been told, and it may help you curb some of your more aggressive tendencies," Mycroft Holmes quipped from the doorway of 221B. He shook his head and tsked condescendingly at the shattered phone bits on the floor as he entered the flat.

Sherlock spun around sneering at the British official. "If you can be useful to me, I'll listen. If not get out."

With a haughty sigh, Mycroft pulled his mobile from his pocket. "Begin."

"Vase arrangement. Lots of daisies and blue violets. I also need bluebells, satin-flowers, and purple hyacinth."

Mycroft's brow furrowed. "May I ask for whom you are gathering such a- specific bouquet, Sherlock?"

"No you may not, Mycroft." The younger Holmes threw himself into his leather chair with a disdainful air, never looking at his brother. "Can you acquire these or not?"

"Daisies and blue violets- a loyal and faithful love. Bluebells are to mean humility and gratitude, while the hyacinth is a plea for forgiveness. But the **very important** satin-flower blossoms are for sincerity. This isn't for a case, is it?" It was less of a question that it was a revelation to Mycroft.

"Can you get them? Yes. Or. No." Sherlock muttered through clenched teeth.

"I can. But what have I told you about getting invested in the lives of goldfish? Because as lovely as you may find Molly Hooper, sentiment does you no good. You are more useful remaining focused on the work."

"Get the flowers to me by this afternoon. I want to deliver them myself." The detective's voice was cold.

"Sherlock, you are incapable of relationships. It is simply not in our nature, and this will only lead to heartache. For both you and Molly."

Sherlock moved so quickly, Mycroft was nearly forced to step back. With a tight grip on the older man's silk tie, Sherlock pulled his brother down until they were eye to eye.

"I owe that woman my life, and you owe her more respect than that. She is Dr. Hooper and you will address her by that title. Get me the flowers and stay out of my affairs, Brother."

 _That's odd_ , thought Molly.

She usually texted Sherlock if she needed to speak with him, but she felt that a call might be more appropriate in this case. But his number had gone straight to voicemail.

Molly felt a bit of panic rise. If he and John were on a case Mary would have let her know, so why was his phone off? It was probably nothing, as the man had lost many a mobile to the Thames or a chase through the streets of London. But since the Magnussen case she'd worried when she couldn't reach him.

She was sure she was overreacting, but it couldn't hurt to call Mrs. Hudson and just see if Sherlock was at home. After twiddling nervously with her phone for almost a minute, she placed the call before she could talk herself out of it.

As soon as Mrs. Hudson answered with her sweet hello, Molly smiled in spite of her apprehension. She absolutely loved chatting with the lady.

"Hello Mrs. Hudson. It's Molly Hooper."

"Molly, dear! It's been too long since I've heard your voice. Are you well dear?"

 _Actually, no. My heart is pounding and I can barely speak coherently._

"I'm just fine, thanks. But I was trying to get a hold of Sherlock and there seems to be something wrong with his mobile. Do you happen to know if everything is alright?" Molly was trying to keep the worry out of her voice.

The older woman let her voice drop into a whisper. "An argument with his brother, I think. I heard yelling, then something smashing- which to be honest is far too common an occurrence in that flat- and when I peeked out I saw Mycroft heading down the stairs. It was one of the calmer arguments between the two, come to think of it..."

 _Oh, thank goodness._

"Here, I'll go fetch him for you, dear..."

"No! Mrs. Hudson, you don't have to do that!" But it was too late- she could hear that the woman had put the receiver down and was hollering up the stairs to 221B.

Molly began to gnaw on her bottom lip. Maybe she should just hang up? But then what would she say to Mrs. Hudson? It would be so rude and she couldn't do that to the older lady. She could say she had another call come in- and it was St. Barts she'd had to take it and they-"

A rattling sound as the receiver was picked up pulled her from her thoughts of potential excuses.

"Molly? Are you still there?"

 _Oh. That's not Mrs. Hudson._

"Hello, Sherlock. I'm sorry if I've interrupted something but I was trying to call and-"

"Yes, my mobile. It- well, it's broken and I haven't replaced it yet."

"Oh, alright."

A few seconds of terrifyingly awkward silence passed before Sherlock broke the tension.

"I'm glad you called, Molly. You seemed- upset- the last time we spoke, and I'm sorry if I was the one to have upset you."

Molly Hooper would recognize that velvet baritone anywhere, but this didn't sound like the Sherlock she was used to at all.

"I'm not upset anymore. But I am a bit- well, a bit confused actually."

"Of course. I've behaved poorly toward you and you now doubt the sincerity of my intentions."

"Sherlock, I- intentions? I'm not- I guess I don't understand..." Molly was wide-eyed and trying to gain some footing in the conversation.

"You're not working at Barts today. Perhaps I may call on you this afternoon? I have- well, I **will** have something for you by then. A gift of sorts."

Sherlock Holmes never asked permission to visit her flat. He simply picked the lock and let himself in- often when she wasn't home. She felt very uncertain of this entire situation, and being so on edge was getting her anger up again.

"Sherlock, just tell me what you want. I don't need your gifts and I don't need manipulation. Just tell me what you want from me."

She heard him take a deep breath and exhale slowly.

"I- I want to see you this afternoon. I want to give you a gift. And I would like nothing more than for you to be my guest to the Scotland Yard ball. I promise you that I am not trying to manipulate or get you to go anything for me. But given our past history I would understand if you decline it all."

Mary Watson's words echoed in her mind.

" _He's taking a chance with his heart."_

" _What he knows is that he's hurt you so badly, that he doesn't deserve to be with you, Molly."_

" _Give the man a chance."_

Perhaps Molly Hooper could take a chance too.

"Alright, Sherlock. Come by this afternoon. I'll be here."


	6. Chapter 6

Her flat was as clean as it would ever be. Molly had mopped floors, vacuumed rugs, scrubbed counters, and dusted like a mad woman until there was nothing left to be done. She always cleaned when she was nervous, and it usually helped to keep her calm and focused.

Today seemed to be an exception to the rule.

After a long, hot shower in her sparkling bathroom, Molly wrapped herself in a towel and stood in front of her wardrobe. The little black dress was still there, hanging outside of the closet door, and she glared at the garment for a moment before getting back to business.

 _What does one wear when the love of your life is coming over to potentially break your heart?_

Molly found her favorite pair of jeans and an oversized grey cable-knit jumper. She usually preferred brighter colors and prints, but the thought of facing Sherlock had her feeling more subdued. The grey suited her mood today. Molly padded out in bare feet to her living room, plaiting her wet hair.

 _Nothing to do now but wait._

She tried watching telly, but nothing held her interest. Looking over at her books, she spotted her beat up paperback copy of Pride and Prejudice. Her stomach knotted a bit at first glance, but she found herself taking it off the shelf and thumbing through to her favorite passages, ones she'd highlighted years ago.

Molly decided to avoid the later chapters of the novel. All of that requited love might raise her hopes for the conversation she was currently dreading. But the earlier part of the book was safe. So Molly tucked her feet underneath herself and curled into the corner of the sofa as she flipped though her favorite book. She started out jumping around chapters and passages, finally settling into the first ball at which Lizzie and Darcy meet and dislike each other.

Thoroughly engrossed in her reading for almost half an hour, Molly was pulled from the book by a knocking at her flat door. It was only in that moment, as the words she'd been reading hung in her mind, she realized that Darcy's voice in her mind was the voice of Sherlock Holmes. She hurried to return the book to the shelf and glanced quickly at her reflection in the mirror by her door.

With a deep breath and a straightening of her spine, she opened the door to the largest floral arrangement she'd ever seen.

Molly noted an abundance of white daisies- her absolute favorite- and although some of the other flowers looked familiar, she didn't know their names. Scanning down, she quickly recognized the musicians hands holding the glass vase and the length of his trusty Belstaff, but Sherlock's face was not visible behind the huge bouquet. The absurdity of the scene made her giggle and eased her nerves for a moment.

He lowered his arms as far as he could, and Molly could just make out his dark curls behind the flowers.

"Hello, Molly. These are for you, obviously. Where would you like them?" Sherlock almost sounded nervous as he stepped carefully into the pathologist's flat.

"Goodness, it's such a tall arrangement- let's try the coffee table."

After setting down the flowers, Sherlock looked around the room, his eyes landing everywhere except on Molly. She cleared her throat lightly.

"Would you care for tea?"

Her offer was met with silence, as Sherlock stared at her bookcase.

"Unless you'd prefer coffee- I also have some of those chocolate biscuits you-"

"Tea. Tea would be- good," he interrupted, still not looking at her.

The silence felt heavy, and Molly whipped around quickly toward the kitchen. She had taken out her heirloom tea service in preparation for the afternoon, but now she had doubts. What fault would he find with it? He was probably making deductions about her frenzied cleaning this morning. What would he say about that? Or her clothing, maybe she should have worn something else?

Dread pooled in her stomach. She had wanted to be so strong and resist the attempts at manipulation she was certain to encounter today. But right now, Molly wasn't sure she had the strength to leave the safety of her little kitchen.

 _What are you so afraid of, Molly Hooper? He either wants to take you to the Yarder's ball- which is admittedly unlikely- or he wants something from you to which you can say 'yes' or 'no.'_

Feeling slightly more in control of herself, Molly walked her tea tray into the living room to find Sherlock still staring at her bookcase. She arranged the tea, preparing his cup the way she knew he preferred and placing a couple of biscuits on his saucer before deciding to speak.

"Thank you for the flowers, Sherlock. They're beautiful. Daisies are my favorite."

"They are meant as an apology to you, and as such are woefully inadequate. But I thought- that is, I had hoped you would like them."

He turned around slowly and taking up the tea Molly had prepared for him, sat down on her yellow armchair. This time he looked her in the eye.

"I'm very glad you like them, Molly." Sherlock spoke quietly, almost whispering her name, and it made a light shiver run down her spine.

It took every bit of her willpower to look away from Sherlock in that moment. He looked so open and honest, she could almost feel her heart swell. But her logical brain was begging her to be cautious.

"I appreciate the apology, Sherlock, but I know there are things we should probably discuss." Molly took a deep breath and squared her shoulders.

Sherlock did not look away, but his face became sad. "You said 'appreciate,' but not 'accept.' You doubt my apology."

"You've only apologized to me once before, and it never required any kind of gift. I'm trying to figure out what kind of apology demands such a grand gesture." Molly was beginning to get agitated, but tried to keep her voice steady. After all, he was the one that wanted to talk, and now he seemed to be speaking in riddles.

Sherlock took a sip of his tea before placing it back on the table. He stood up and walked over to the bookcase he'd been staring at earlier. Selecting the copy of Pride and Prejudice she'd been reading before he'd arrived, Sherlock began to speak.

"You were reading this at some point today, probably just before I arrived." He flipped through the book with purpose, seeming to look for something specific.

Sherlock found what he was looking for, and he joined Molly on the sofa, handing her the book open to a highlighted passage. One she knew quite well.

 ** _"Then," observed Elizabeth, "you must comprehend a great deal in your idea of an accomplished women."_**

 **" _Yes; I do comprehend a great deal in it."_**

 **" _Oh! certainly," cried his faithful assistant, "no one can be really esteemed accomplished, who does not greatly surpass what is usually met with. A woman must have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing, and the modern languages, to deserve the word; and besides all this, she must possess a certain something in her air and manner of walking, the tone of her voice, her address and expressions, or the word will be but half deserved."_**

 **" _All this she must possess," added Darcy, "and to all this she must yet add something more substantial, in the improvement of her mind by extensive reading."_**

 **" _I am no longer surprised at your knowing_ _ _only__ _six accomplished women. I rather wonder now at your knowing_ _ _any__ _."_**

 **" _Are you so severe upon your own sex, as to doubt the possibility of all this?"_**

Molly finished reading and shook her head.

"I'm sorry, I- I don't think I understand what you're telling me, Sherlock."

"Mr. Darcy wanted an extraordinary woman. Accomplished not only by society's standards, but possessing a great and independent mind. He uses the word 'substantial' because he needs her to be real, to be of great worth. And yet even your hero did not recognize his equal at first. He dismisses her out of habit perhaps, or self-preservation. But once he had realized his mistake, he does everything he can to correct it. Darcy doesn't get it right the first time- he stumbles over his pride, but he eventually perseveres."

Sherlock placed his hands around Molly's where they were clutching the paperback. He gave her a small smile, but his eyes were so full of worry she couldn't bring herself to smile back.

"And I hoped that if you could love a character like Darcy, someone callous and rude, who could cut down such an extraordinary woman as Lizzie, then perhaps you could forgive a man like me. Forgive my unkindness toward my ideal 'accomplished woman.' And perhaps, if I could make my amends you could- perhaps you would love me, and let me love you in return?"

"Love?" The whisper that escaped Molly's lips was all the sound she could muster.

"Love, Molly. I don't know how to make you happy, but I know I want to try. If you could be patient with me..."

Molly stood up quickly and turned away from him, clutching the book to her chest as tears began to fill her eyes. She had never cried in front of Sherlock Holmes and she couldn't let him see her like this.

Drawing a ragged breath, she slowly turned back to face him, but kept her eyes on the paperback in her hands.

"Do you mean it, truly? Because I don't think I could bear it if you are lying."

He took the book from her hands and placed it with great care on the coffee table. Leaning his tall frame over to catch her downcast eyes, he took her small hands into his.

"I mean every word, Molly."

When her eyes met his, she knew she was lost. A small move forward and her lips met his for a chaste kiss, even as she felt a tear fall down her cheek. She felt his hands come down to lightly rest at her waist, and the touch jolted her into reality.

She stepped back quickly but not terribly far, just out of his reach. Wiping her eyes with the heel of her hand, she struggled to get her breath back. Sherlock sighed, but the sadness that had hovered in his eyes previously was gone. Molly had the fleeting thought that perhaps she saw a glimmer in his eyes now.

Hope? Or perhaps determination?

"I'm sorry, Molly. I don't- I- haven't done anything to prove myself worthy of your trust yet. But I want to- I **will** prove it to you." Sherlock straightened up and made to walk past her, but Molly placed her hand out to stop him, hovering just in front of his chest.

"Please, Sherlock. You know how I feel, how I've felt, I just- I need a bit of time." She wanted desperately to touch him, and she watched her hand shake.

Sherlock placed his hand over hers, pressing it to his chest, and she felt his heart beating almost as erratically as hers.

"I will wait as long as need be, Molly. You are a woman that deserves to be courted, and I will endeavor to win you over, both heart and mind."

With that, Sherlock strode over to the coat rack where he had hung his Belstaff, and reached inside the coat for an envelope. He stared intently at it for a brief moment, before turning back to Molly and handing it over to her.

"These are the tickets for the Scotland Yard ball. You don't have to accompany me if you'd rather not, I leave that decision in your hands. But a car will arrive for you at 8pm. If you choose not to attend simply send him away. Otherwise I will meet you at the Savoy."

With a practiced grace, Sherlock slid into his coat and wrapped his scarf around his long, pale neck. He cast an indecipherable look at Molly, before tilting her chin up with his index finger, leaning over her. His breath rushed over her lips as he spoke.

"You have bewitched me, body and soul, Molly Hooper. I do hope you'll find it in your heart to accept my apology, my invitation, and perhaps even me." With this he brushed his lips lightly over hers, before pulling away.

Molly watched him leave her flat, before sitting back down on her couch. With wide eyes, she looked at the spidery handwriting on the envelope in her hand and allowed a slow smile to spread on her face.

 _Maybe this is what Elizabeth Bennet meant by 'incandescently happy,'_ thought Molly.


	7. Chapter 7

"Mary I don't even have a dress yet, why are we shopping for underthings?"

An excited Mary Watson and a very confused Molly Hooper had been wandering through Harrods a good part of the afternoon. The pair now found themselves in the Agent Provocateur section, even though Molly had been trying to steer them toward the cocktail dresses for the better part of the hour.

Mary never lifted her eyes from the pair of red satin panties she'd picked up.

"Of course you have a dress, Molly."

The brunette wrinkled her brow. "No, I don't. That's the reason I called to you help me shop today. I don't have a dress for the ball, and I need to find something special. It has to be perfect." Her voice trailed off a bit wistfully.

Molly was trying hard to keep level-headed about Yarder's Ball, but every time she thought about Sherlock and replayed his last visit to her, she couldn't keep her heart from swelling. It was the most romantic moment of her life and it was given to her by the man she thought would never love her back.

And if the ball went well tomorrow night, Molly might be treated to a few more romantic moments.

She was pulled from her daydream when Mary shoved a sheer lace corset in her hands. Molly felt her cheeks blush as she looked over the piece. It was a gorgeous creation of black Leavers lace with satin stays on each side and had garters attached as well. It was easily the sexiest piece of lingerie she'd ever seen.

"What are you waiting for? Go try it on and see if you don't feel like an absolute bombshell." Mary was grinning like a Cheshire Cat.

Molly looked at her friend with wide eyes. "I'm not sure I can pull this off."

"Try it on. It suits a particular black dress you already own." And with that Mary turned away, heading for a display of silk stockings.

The black dress. Molly wandered into the dressing room, and considered both the dress and the corset while she disrobed. The garment in her hand was a perfect combination of pretty and scandalous. Although it had intricate satin laces, she was relieved to see it also had very subtle hook-and-eye closures so she needed no help getting the piece on.

 _But perhaps I could have a certain someone's help getting out of it..._

The devilish thought crossed Molly's mind and struck her with a bit of inspiration. Before she turned to see her reflection in the three-panel mirror, she dug tall black pumps out of her striped bag. She'd planned on wearing them to try on dresses, but maybe they would help her feel a little sexier. She slipped them on and whipped her long hair into a messy bun at the top of her head. Biting her lip, she turned to face the mirror.

 _Oh._

 _Oh, my..._

When Molly exited the dressing room, Mary couldn't help but notice her friend was now wearing black heels.

 **The car will arrive for you at 8pm. See you tonight, Molly.**

 **-SH**

The rhinestone accents of the dress glowed warmly as they reflected the light from the candles Molly had lit earlier that evening. The woman herself sat perched on the end of her bed, a glass of white wine in her hand. She was once again considering her dress. But for the first time it wasn't upsetting her.

On the contrary, Molly was starting to see some possibility in that little black dress.

She had curled her hair, more for volume than any careful style, and it fell in wide, loose waves over her shoulders. She had applied makeup but it was fairly simple: she played up her eyes with dark liner and mascara, but left her lips with only a touch of soft pink gloss.

After taking the last sip from her wineglass, she placed it on her nightstand.

It was the moment of truth: time to put on the black dress of the Baker Street Christmas Disaster.

She took off her rarely-worn black satin robe and admired herself in her new purchases. The corset had put a healthy dent in her bank account but looking at herself in the candlelight Molly was absolutely certain it was worth it. She'd also purchased matching panties and pair of sheer black silk stockings, and the completed look was more than Molly expected.

Even if no one else saw this particular part of her ensemble tonight, Molly felt wonderfully sexy. Perhaps knowing that Sherlock actually wanted her company at the ball tonight added a bit of confidence. She felt butterflies fluttering in her stomach but they were tinged with a sweet anticipation, not fear.

The front door buzzed just as Molly reached for her dress, and she jumped a bit in surprise.

Sherlock had said the car would arrive at 8pm, and it was barely 7.

Molly reached for her satin robe, but thought better of it, reaching instead for her well-worn cotton dressing gown. After covering herself as well as she could, she headed to the door.

 _Well, this was... unexpected..._

"Good evening, Dr. Hooper. May I have a moment of your time?" He may have posed it as a question, but Mycroft Holmes was not waiting for an answer. He swept past Molly, as she gripped the collar of her dressing gown closed in confusion, and perhaps a bit of protection.

Mycroft scanned her small flat, and Molly could almost see the deductions going on in his mind. When he was done, he met her eye with a blatantly insincere smile.

"My time is limited, Dr. Hooper, but it was time we had this little chat, particularly as you are amidst your...preparations for an evening with my brother." The fake smile dropped with a tilt of his head, as he gestured for her to sit.

Molly obliged, but Mycroft remained standing. The sweet butterflies of earlier had given way to anxious, churning knots in her stomach. Gone was the confidence she'd had just moments ago.

He paced the small living room, swinging his umbrella slightly as he moved.

"In light of romantic overtures Sherlock seems to be making, I thought it imperative to come and see you. My brother does not indulge in sentiment, and certainly not in anything resembling _**love**_. You would do well to discourage any romantic attachment before one or both of you are hurt in this farce. "

"To be frank, Dr. Hooper," he said as he stopped moving and met her eyes, "you are smart enough to have known this by now."

The condescension in his tone pulled Molly from her pensive state, and for the first time since he'd entered her flat, she gave him her own deductive look. After all, if she could read one Holmes, she might be able to read the other.

Mycroft usually had a very easy confidence about him; the sort of confidence that sprung from knowing just about everything about everyone. But tonight he seemed to be trying too hard. His pacing was out of character and his fingers refused to remain still on the curve of his umbrella handle.

 _He looks worried. Worried about Sherlock?_

Shaking off her nerves, Molly relaxed the tight grip on her dressing gown and sat up a bit taller.

"Mycroft, you seem concerned about your brother, but I'm not sure why you've come to me with all of this. Perhaps you should speak with him directly."

He snorted in response, seeming agitated. "Do you think Sherlock would listen to a word I say on the matter? No, you need to be the one to end this nonsense before it begins. I need your word that you will not further encourage this behavior."

Her temper flared up, but she knew getting angry would accomplish nothing. Molly calmly stood up.

"I will do no such thing. And I haven't encouraged him. Quite the opposite, actually- I've tried hard to get over him. But Sherlock says he loves me and I believe him- obviously you believe it as well. Otherwise you wouldn't have bothered to come here."

As the words left her mouth, a quote of text ran through her mind.

 ** _"Though I know it must be a scandalous falsehood, though I would not injure him so much as to suppose the truth of it possible, I instantly resolved on setting off for this place, that I might make my sentiments known to you.''_**

 ** _"If you believed it impossible to be true,'' said Elizabeth, colouring with astonishment and disdain, "I wonder you took the trouble of coming so far. What could your ladyship propose by it?"_**

 _Oh my God. Mycroft Holmes is my Lady Catherine._

 _He would look stunning in a large floral hat and gown. The umbrella would only complement the outfit._

Images began to flood her mind and in trying to hold back her giggle, Molly snorted.

Mycroft's face, previously furrowed in frustration with the small doctor, now begin to turn red with fury. It should have been frightening, but it only made the pathologist laugh a little harder.

"Do you find humor in inevitable heartbreak, Dr. Hooper?"

"I'm sorry, but you just- reminded me of someone. Didn't mean to laugh." She composed herself, and softly addressed the angry man before her.

"Mycroft, smart or not, I love Sherlock. And he seems to have figured out that he loves me. I'm a bit scared for the both of us, to be honest. But I can promise you, I will do my best not to hurt him."

Her gentle tone seemed to relax him a bit but his blue eyes remained angry. He gave her a hard look up and down, no doubt deducing her, looking for any information he could use against the pathologist.

A week ago it would have terrified her to be on the receiving end of a Mycroft Holmes deduction. But Molly had nothing to hide. She stood calmly and allowed him to come to his own conclusions. She watched the anger in his eyes dissipate, and his face lost its furious flush. His shoulders lowered a tiny bit and he sighed, shaking his head.

Mycroft opened his mouth to speak but seemed to think better of it. He stood and headed toward the door and paused just as he reached it. Molly noticed a subtle relaxation in his demeanor, although his back remained ramrod straight as he turned toward her.

"I still believe this is an awful idea," he chastised. The words held less vitriol than any of his previous admonishments. "However, it's very clear to me that you truly love him."

"I do, Mycroft. I have for a long time."

He spoke slowly and quietly. "You've been nothing but loyal to my brother, so if he insists on dabbling in sentiment, I'm glad he's doing so with someone as trustworthy as you, Dr. Hooper."

"I know that's high praise coming from you, Mycroft. And you can just call me Molly."

Mycroft's face remained neutral, but his eyes twinkled a bit."I have already been threatened with bodily harm should I refer to you by any name other than the title you've earned. You'll forgive me if I insist on 'Dr. Hooper.'"

With that, the British government swept out of her flat. Molly remained frozen for a moment, the shock of the strange meeting finally setting in. She blinked rapidly, then turned in a bit of a panic toward the clock hanging on the wall behind her.

7:38pm.

Molly jumped up nearly running to her bedroom to finish getting ready for the Yarder's ball.

And her first date with Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
